Of Guns and Wings
by T.V.Meza
Summary: Based upon the story of Eros and Psyche.


Of Guns and Wings.

Author: Thalia Meza, 21194898

ooOoo

"_Port Olympia is the world's wealthiest city, yet beneath its glamorous surface lay a bubbling hot bed of crime and corruption. Amongst the routine of seemingly nonstop violence and embezzlement, Psychandre Fairbrooks, top detective of the city's largest law enforcement unit – stops at nothing to make her city a better place._

_After a series of attempted murders, Psychandre is suddenly ordered to abandon the case altogether. And after many months, it seems all hope is lost._

_However, a mysterious man bearing the crest of the city's most prominent mob family appears before her._

_He knows who she is. He knows what she wants._

_And he makes an offer she can't refuse."_

**ooOoo**

A pair of fists slammed onto the mahogany desk. "That's bullshit!"

He said, "The matter is closed, Superintendent. The state has taken control over the whole operation; there is nothing I can do about it."

She grit her teeth, she'll be damned if she let the issue go this easily. "Sir, I've spent months on this case, my team and I are close to another lead, if you just gave us more time-"

He stood up from his chair and looked her in the eye.

"I will hear no more of this!" Psychandre barely managed to stop herself from reeling back in shock.

It had been years since she had heard him raise his voice.

"You're team has been chasing nothing but dead ends and dead bodies, it is time to hand the case over to the state."

_This was it wasn't it? _

Her eyes caste onto the hard desk beneath her hands, she knew there was no persuading the hardy chief of police. No matter the years they had spent working side by side.

With gritted teeth she opened the door and slammed it shut.

**ooOoo**

Evening had come quicker than expected. The sun had caste its warm hues over the hollow conference room, there was no need to turn the lights on just yet.

The consistency of echoes from the footsteps of her co-workers a comforting rhythm as she packed the last of files into the boxes. Finally she took a step back and let herself get used to the sight. There were numerous archive boxes, manila folders and disks neatly placed all over the large round table.

Eight years.

Eight years of interviewing, chasing and near misses, all surmounting to nothing.

She sighed and leaned against the edge of the desk, she looked up. The large pin board was still hung up on the wall. The team couldn't bear to take it down just yet.

It was littered with photocopies of mug shots, concert fliers, statements and reports all neatly organised over the map of the Port.

It was eight years ago when Operation West Wind was given the go-ahead by the Chief. It had all started when famous singer, Arya Leto, was shot during a performance in front of a sold out stadium. It had been a clean wound through the heart. At first it seemed the case would be one easily solved and packed away given the many jealous lovers that had been wrapped around her finger.

But witnesses stopped testifying, evidence disappeared and the media had a field day.

Whoever had ordered the hit on Miss Leto – and whoever did it – have still not been found. Since then every tip off that came through lead to a dead end. Another body, sometimes.

Despite the bleakness of the case, Psychandre and the team took solace in the fact that during the eight years, they had prevented three more women greeting a rogue bullet to the heart. Not coincidentally – all had been women of beauty, envious talent and fame.

She grit her teeth; all the pieces were there, yet the answer refuses to bear itself. The temptation not to give up was strong, yet the bags under her once bright blue eyes reminded her otherwise. The Chief of police, the station and her team had already let the matter go.

She looked out through the window, a small bird had perched in the sill, and the white creature preened its feathers as if it had no other care the world. She turned back to the board. She had promised herself that today would be the day it would finally be taken down. One more night wouldn't hurt. Letting her eyes close for a moment was sweet relief.

Psychandre took hold of the small piece of crumpled paper beside her. Before being ordered to the Chief's office a note had been left on her desk, an address to another potential lead to a now closed case.

She took a hold of it.

_One more try. For old times' sake._

She made her way out the door, grabbing her coat as the clouds quickly settled over head in the sky.

"Have a good evening Miss Fairbrooks." Chimed the receptionist as Psychandre entered the busy lobby.

"You too."

The first of the raindrops splatter on the marble of the stairs, the country flag flew wildly as the wind picked up. She took the note in hand; the address was within walking distance just across from the grand central park.

_Do I dare hope? _

**ooOoo**

The apartment complex was mostly empty; the rain had started to settle in a little more.

"Number 29…"

It was a modest dwelling, though the railings were looking too worn to be safe and weeds grew in the strangest of corners aside from the garden. She knocked on the hard edge of the flyscreen.

After a few moments of nothing, she tried again.

No answer.

She quelled the pinprick of disappointment before it grew too quickly. Perhaps nobody was home. And there was no sign of any forced entry from someone before her. The person was alive at least.

Suddenly the door opened a crack. Psychandre nearly jumped as she was pulled out of her reverie. An old woman wearing heavy framed glasses and sporting wild curly grey hair glared back at her through the safety of a locked flyscreen.

"Excuse me ma'am, sorry to disturb you," she fished her badge out from the inner pocket of her coat, "I'm here on behalf of the PAPD. It is regarding the death of Miss Leto. I believe you have tried to contact us-"

The door closed.

"…"

It took her a moment to process what had just happened. She had been attacked, yelled at, and on the odd occasion, a shoulder to cry on but never had someone closed the door without a word.

Psychandre knocked again, harder. The short fuse of her temper already down to half.

The door opened.

"Miss, I would just like to ask a few quest-"

"Leave, cop." Muttered the lady, before slamming it shut.

She tossed her arms up, exasperated. "Tsch."

From the corner of her eyes, the closed curtains of the window parallel to the door shifted. Taking a breath, she sighed.

"Any information is highly valued, Ma'am. Please come down to the station when you are ready to cooperate." She took a card out of her pocket and nudged it under the door, making sure it didn't tear on its journey inwards.

With one last glance at the figure peeking through the curtains, she turned to leave.

ooOoo

The door opened again, and the lady emerged, peering from the edge of the door down the corridor as the slim figure disappeared into the stairwell.

"Be careful…dear."

Her tangle of hair fluttered as the wind picked up again.

ooOoo

The sun had long since set as Psychandre made her way through the market district, finding the path leading towards the park. The delicious scent of a range of familiar and foreign spices filled her senses. Her belly rumbled, reminded that she once again unfortunately has to go through the arduous chore of chopping, grilling and platting up dinner.

"Maybe I should pick up something for dinner instead…"

The little man turned green and softly clicked when she crossed the road.

The hairs on her neck suddenly rose. She placed a hand on her short cropped locks and ran her fingers though her hair a few times over. She took a deep breath and picked up her pace, briskly passing a couple leisurely strolling by arm in arm. Her eyes darted to each glowing lamp post as she rushed towards with the urgency of a runner reaching the finish line.

The decision to cut through the park home was the worst decision ever executed.

She looked over her shoulder. Nothing.

A sigh of relief escaped her when she entered the main oval, full of families, cupples and school children enjoying the breezy evening. Safety in numbers. She weaved through the playgrounds and picnic benches and with a final glace back, disappeared back onto the path.

Her thumping heart was finally settling at the sound of her heels, alone, hit against the brick pavement.

Finally, she took the time to look at the bed of flowers either side of her as she walked. They bloomed magnificently in a burst of pink, it was an event Port Olympia was well known for, many travelled to the city to witness it happen, even if it lasted only one night before withering away until the next season. Psychandre had forgotten that it had been tonight.

The end of the park and the top of her apartment peeked between the last set of blooming trees. The busy road and stop lights were so close.

The last lamppost flickered. A figure soon emerged onto the now dark path.

She backed away slowly as he came closer with hands buried deep into his hooded jumper. His head picked up at the slightest, he grinned.

Her eyes widened, and in a flurry she undid her coat, hands instinctively hovering over her right hip. That reminded her of mistake number two.

_My gun. Shit, I left it at the station!_

A twig snapped behind her, and she glanced over. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her elbow and dragged her backwards; a gloved hand quickly pressed a cloth against her face. A deep, desperate breath for air was forced out of her.

_S-Sedative…?_

Her body fought the urge to sleep, but her knees gave way and she watched on in horror as her body toppled sideways; powerless to stop the near weightless, dizzy fall.

Her eyes fluttered open for a single moment. She had landed on the bushes, petals were scattered everywhere. In a lazy drug haze she found herself following them as they slowly fell down around her.

Slowly, they closed.

Two figures stood beside her.

"She came to visit the old lady." He said.

The other said, "Is she the one the boss is hunting?"

"Maybe. Just get the - hey! Who the hell are you?!"

_Bang! Bang!_

Her world turned black.

**ooOoo**

The chipped slabs of concrete looked very old beneath her feet, and oddly dusty.

_Concrete?_

From her daze, Psychandre's eyes widened to the brim. The events pieced themselves together in her mind. Yet the rope binding her wrists and her uncomfortable position on a chair beneath a flickering light did not make sense.

She looked at her surrounding, it seemed like a worn down warehouse on the docks. The metal doors at the far end were wide open. She frowned.

"I know you're there." She said.

Footsteps echoed as they slowly hit the concrete. It seemed an eternity before the man in an immaculate black suit and a white scarf emerged from the dark shadows.

He had a cigar on hand and was surrounded by a misty haze of smoke. His eyes were pinned to her, and she shrank in her seat, suddenly feeling exposed in the bright light.

"W-Who are you?" she asked.

He smiled and took another puff of the cigar. In what little light that reached him a cufflink shone with brilliance, two wings pinned to each other, the detail of the feathers was immaculate and carved deep into the delicate metal with sinuous curves.

_That symbol! Could it be…_

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you the one who attacked me?"

He took a few slow steps forward, the shadow of his large frame towering over her. She kept her eyes onto his own black orbs, refusing to turn away no matter the fear that made a single sweat drop glide down her neck.

"Of course not." He said. Voice deep, smooth and coaxing her to calm down. "Rather, I have saved you time and time again, yet you are none the wiser."

He suddenly took a firm hold of her chin, she gasped, the light suddenly in her eyes. She squinted and was barely able to see his face.

_What?_

"You're a mobster aren't you? You work for the Wingates family." She strained.

"That is one way to put it."

She frowned, "You haven't killed me yet, what is it you want? Money? Immunity? Control of the Port?"

His brow furrowed dangerously and he removed his hand, burying it into his pocket and strolling past her. "You place me in ill company of corrupt politicians and overzealous mobsters. I want, nor need neither."

Psychandre tested her restraints and counted how many steps it would take to reach the door, although the two men in black suits and dark shades beside a car proved an obstacle.

"Alright. So who are you and what do you want?"

He said, "You may call me Eros. And I have a proposition for you, it will be in you're interest to accept it."

As he dropped the cigar and put out the embers with the tip of his leather shoes, Psychandre swallowed the dryness of her throat.

What had she gotten herself into.


End file.
